Piltover's Reckoning
by WaddleBuff
Summary: Four murders in one night. In the pristine crime-free city-state of Piltover, this is unheard of. But after a long night of investigation, Caitlyn discovers something much deeper than she thought she would ever find.


**Piltover's Reckoning**

The atmosphere that night was murky and dark, darker than the nights that usually befell the technological haven of Piltover. Streets gleam in a shrill, bright neon glare, remaining water from the previous rainfall reflecting the sea of suspended lights occupying every inch of the city. Resonances of zooming automobiles and an occasional cry of a siren emanating from one of the city-state's elite police force permeate the otherwise silent air of the night.

Upon hearing the sharp cry of a siren, a man instinctively whips his head about, his eyes laced with anxiety and fear. Several moments pass before he adjusts the collar of his raincoat to further conceal his face, resuming his trek through the sodden city streets. After a block or two, the man looks around him once more before entering a dark alleyway.

The alleyway itself is dark and dismal, contrary to the buildings surrounding it. A stray cat pounces on invisible prey before skittering off beside the man's leg, causing him to almost jump in surprise. Once again he pauses as his heart beats with an incessant boom. The man's anxiety seems to be excessive, as if he's scared of the streets themselves, unused to the grimy atmosphere of Piltover's slums. This unseemly behavior is coupled by what seems to be the aura of one who is in power, a certain importance only specific men carry.

Finally the man halts, extracting a ripped sheet of paper from his pocket as if to double-check his location. His eyes once again look around in anxious fear, his feet turning to leave. Suddenly an eerie voice booms from the darkness.

"_**Oh don't leave just yet. You've just arrived."**_

The voice results in all the man's hairs to stand on end, his body instinctively swiveling toward the darkness of the alley in fear.

"A-are you the one wh-who called me?"

A sinister chuckle sends a shiver down the man's spine.

"_**Indeed," **_another throaty chuckle permeates the air, _**"it is quite amusing to see what a politician would do to keep his name clear…"**_

At this the man's face reddens a bit, anger rising in his system to push aside the fear that had occupied his psyche mere moments before.

"Just _who _are you?! What do you want from me?"

A sigh can be heard, one not dissimilar to the sigh a mother gives to a disobedient child.

"_**Nothing much. Only your life."**_

Before the man could react, he feels a searing pain burn in his abdomen. Clutching his stomach, he brings his shivering hand to his eyes to only see that his hand is covered in red. With that, his world swirls with a bitter darkness before his legs give way, and his life escapes him. The man's body is left on the wet ground of the alley, a puddle of blood beginning to accumulate under it.

Silence ensues for several minutes, before footsteps reverberate throughout the alley. The footfalls stop as a dark, imposing figure stands above the politician's corpse. Then, a piece of paper engraved with black words is dropped atop it.

"_**Come along gentlemen. The night has just begun."**_

The mysterious silhouette disappears into the shadows of the night, accompanied with near-silent padding of footfalls as others join him in the darkness.

* * *

Blue and red lights illuminate the dismal sodden walls of the alley, the usually lifeless corner of Piltover alive with bustling activity as the city-state's police force gather around a dead politician's body like ants to a picnic. Blue and white police automobiles surround the border of the area, all of their lights aglow.

Yellow tape girds the perimeter of the crime scene, various investigators taking samples carefully by placing them within plastic bags. The murder had been reported a mere few minutes ago, and within the short timeframe the elite police force had already answered the call to set up a perimeter for investigation; this itself was a result of the extremely low crime rate existing in the City of Progress, due to the war on crime declared by a certain sheriff a few years prior.

Suddenly one car, not differing in appearance with any of the others, rolls into the scene, parking itself in a spot saved just for it. Immediately, all of the officers halt their progress as they realize the Sheriff had arrived, all of them waiting in anticipation for their most revered officer to step out into the night.

Finally the door of the car opens; from inside a two feminine legs swing out, an oversized purple and gold hat peeking over the top of the car door. The figure stands, closing the door behind her. All the officers of on the scene silence themselves to a revered hush, contrary to the hustle and bustle that had occurred before the Sheriff had come onto the scene.

All eyes at that moment were on Caitlyn, the Sheriff of Piltover. She was dressed in her usual attire that night; her signature one-piece purple and gold dress with white lace trimmed on the edges accompanying her headpiece fitted with various magnification apparatus that constantly whirred and clicked as she took in the scene before her with a discriminating eye. Her brown leather boots matching the straps girding her bare thighs clacked on the concrete ground as she walked to the scene with her usual investigator's glare. Caitlyn's ever-present sniper rifle is slung over her shoulder, giving off a sense of authority almost as great as her own.

A senior officer immediately rushes over to her, his hands holding a plastic see-through bag containing a piece of paper with black bold wording. Bough, as he was called, was a man about the same age as she was, his passion for investigating burning fiercely, seeming to grow with each passing day. It was this fire that prompted Caitlyn to hire him.

"Caitlyn, glad you made it," the officer said with a revered yet casual tone.

"The pleasure is all mine, Bough. Murders are rare, but are always an enjoyable exercise in this city. Give me the scoop," she said, immediately jumping to business, her words executed with her sharp Piltoverian accent.

At her words, everybody returns to their business, the sounds of busy activity permeating the air once more. Clearing his throat, her subordinate hands her the plastic bag, the paper inside glaring at her with their words as he begins to speak.

"The victim is Timothy Yesgerd, member of the Piltoverian Council, aged 39. Most well-known affiliates include Greenburg Energies, the now-bankrupt Sinstrax Industries, and Heimerdinger Industries. No known suspects, reason for being in these lower slums unknown, and no witnesses to be accounted of. Death result of close-range .22 caliber bullet, ballistics is still working on finding the gun it was fired from."

By the time Bough had finished speaking, the couple was already standing above the corpse of the deceased politician, looking down upon the body with curious eyes.

"And this is something you found along with the body I assume?" Caitlyn asked, raising the bag in her hand slightly.

"Correct."

Caitlyn read the bold wording with a scrutinizing eye, a lens occasionally swooping in front of her, allowing her to analyze small details within the parchment. The words themselves, inked in obsidian black, were the real interest to her. They read as follows:

"**Many souls you have introduced to Death's grin.**

** If you consider yourself worthy, visit us and come in.**

** Think upon your SINS."**

On the very top right hand corner is penned the numerals, **"IV"**

Caitlyn took special note of the capitalization of every letter in the word 'SINS' and the note's invitation to 'visit'.

"What do you make of it ma'am?" Bough inquired.

A minute or two passes as Caitlyn looks upward, through the crime scene; off to a distant sight only she can see. Finally she responds her subordinate's question with another question.

"Did you notice the numerals on the corner of the parchment Bough?"

"Yes. The team and I have been wondering about it."

"What do _you _make of it?" Caitlyn prompts, her distant eyes returning to the present time, focusing on the man before her.

Taken aback at the sudden spotlight, he stammers, "W-Well I…uh, I really don't know ma'am."

Unable to formulate anything else, his face contorts into a questioning grimace as he throws her another inquiry.

"But what do _you _think of it ma'am? From that look in your eyes, I am positive you already know what it is."

"Mmm…," Caitlyn mused, her eyes returning again to its glazed-over expression, her visage suddenly occupied by a grim and serious expression.

"What _I _think, is that we have a long, long night ahead of us."

Bough gives her a bemused look, his head cocked to the side.

"What do you mean ma'am?"

"Oh, you'll see. That number has a meaning, a quite simple meaning really. Quite unfortunate for the poor souls involved, but it is already too late."

"I still don't understand."

"Just wait, I'm sure the wireless will- hup! There it is now."

Sure enough, a hidden black box crackled to life within Bough's coat, a voice speaking through the small speaker in a monotone voice, reporting something that resulted in Bough's pallor to rise to a sickly white.

"_Body found on 5__th__ and 8__th__," _the voice reported, Caitlyn's expression adamant and unchanging as the voice continued, _"suspected murder, investigative officers en route."_

With another crackle, the black box goes silent, no words exchanged between Caitlyn and Bough as they take in the news, allowing the sounds of working men around them to fill in the space between them. Caitlyn breaks the silence by turning on her heel to duck under the yellow tape girding the crime scene, making her way to the car. Bough is forced to follow suit.

Caitlyn throws him the keys.

"Here, you drive. We've got three more crime scenes to visit and three more invitations for us to collect. The night is still young Bough, let's not make waste a second to move to action," Caitlyn hurriedly says before sitting herself down in the passenger's seat of the squad car.

Bough is overwhelmed by all the new information she had just bestowed upon him, but complies quickly makes his way to the driver's side of the car, turning on the ignition and putting the car in reverse. He didn't understand what Caitlyn had meant by three crime scenes and three 'invitations', but drives to the reported scene of the murder with excessive speed nonetheless.

* * *

Arriving to the second crime scene, Bough and Caitlyn exit the car deftly, immediately walking over to the officer in charge. The middle-aged mustachioed man takes one glance at the couple and immediately addresses them with the usual reverence given to the Sheriff.

"Caitlyn, Bough, it's wonderful that you decided to come visit. My name is Crowley. Quite a grisly scene it is," the stout man said, waving his arm toward the scene before them.

Their eyes following his pointing finger, Caitlyn and Bough are met with a sight almost completely similar to the crime scene they had been mere minutes before; a body lay face down on the concrete in the center of a multitude of bustling officers, their cars parked with sirens all aglow, yellow tape girding the perimeter.

"A politician I assume?" Caitlyn asks the man, her gaze returning from its brief surveying of the scene with the aid of her mechanical apparatus attached to her hat.

"Why, yes," the Crowley replied, obvious surprise occupying his visage. "How did you venture such an accurate guess?"

"Well, we just came from a scene not dissimilar to this one," Caitlyn replied stoically, her face unchanging. "a mere few blocks away from this crime scene actually. A politician by the name of Timothy Yesgerd, murdered by a .22 caliber bullet."

"T-Two murders in one night? Good gods, how astounding!"

"Quite, but from this parchment the investigation team acquired from atop the politician's body," she extracts the plastic-encased note, waving it in the air. "I am suspecting that there will be at least four murders tonight."

"Four…," Crowley whispered under his breath, his eyes widened with astonishment. One murder in Piltover was enough to cause a stir, but _four_?

"And excuse me for venturing yet another assumption, but I presume that you also have a note similar to this one?"

Crowley is brought back to the current time and quickly replies, "Why yes, we do actually."

Snapping his fingers and calling upon one of his subordinates, Crowley receives a plastic bag containing the desired piece of paper Caitlyn had suspected. Taking it from the senior officer's hand, Caitlyn quickly looks over it. Everything about the ripped paper within the bag was almost exactly the same as the one she held in her hand; the sharp black text read the same, the only difference on this particular piece of evidence being the bold numeral **'III'** on the top left hand corner.

After her quick look-over of the evidence, Caitlyn raises her eyes to the scene, observing with keen interest the body that lay in the middle of the tempest of busy crime scene staff. Her magnifying lenses enlarge the body to her eye as she begins to speak.

"Officer Crowley, if you would be so kind as to elaborate the victim and situation for us?"

"Ah, o-of course," he stammered before beginning his recitation of the requested information. "Victim is Reginald Trosky, member of the Piltoverian Council. Most well-known affiliates include Sinstrax Industries, Wane Enterprises, Heimerdinger Industries, and Greenburg Energies. Aged 47, he is survived by his wi-"

"That is sufficient. Thank you for your time Officer Crowley, but Bough and I really must go," Caitlyn said, cutting Crowley off mid-sentence. She quickly embarks to the patrol car, leaving Bough to his goodbyes to Crowley before he joins her in the driver's seat.

"What now ma'am?" he said as he put on his seatbelt.

"Just wait."

Complying once again, Bough sat patiently within the car, his eyes glancing occasionally to Caitlyn as she rubbed her chin, her eyes squinting as she lost herself deep within thought. Bough found himself staring when suddenly he jolts upright in his seat when the wireless communicator within his jacket once again begins to crackle.

"_Body found on 5__th__ and 3__rd__ street, forces en route. Suspected murder."_

Clasping her hands together, Caitlyn smiles for the first time that night.

"Alright Bough," she says enthusiastically, "let us go. If we hurry, we can catch the perpetrator while his tracks are still hot."

She chuckles softly before saying her signature line,

"I love a good chase."

* * *

Caitlyn stands in front of a wall pinned up with all the evidence and possible leads she had collected that night. Among the displayed sheets of paper pinned up hastily by pushpins, four notes found atop the corpses at the scenes of the crime continue to glare at her with their bold text.

Pinned all around them lay the names of the victims, associates they had involved themselves with, street names, family members, and a myriad of other information that might seem relevant to the case at hand.

If one were to look at this cluster of paper serving as a temporary wallpaper to Caitlyn's living room wall, they never would have assumed that it took her only a mere five minutes to jot all the information down before sticking them all together.

Caitlyn herself had been planted to that spot in front of her information for nearly an hour, her fingers constantly rubbing her chin, her face contorted into a contemplating scowl.

All the information seemed relevant in one way or another, but she still couldn't figure out why. Her eyes dart to the four murdered victims; four politicians by the names of Reginald Trosky, Timothy Yesgard, Xavier Demidov, and Abel Burlinger.

Each one had been shot at point blank range by an unknown gun, a .22 caliber bullet lodged in each of their bodies. No connections were present between the four except for the mysterious invitations that reappeared at every scene of murder.

Reminded of these notes most likely penned by the perpetrator of the crimes, Caitlyn's eyes dart from the penned names to a brown-tinted letter, once again reading the boldfaced words imprinted onto its face.

"**Many souls you have introduced to Death's grin.**

** If you consider yourself worthy, visit us and come in.**

** Think upon your SINS."**

Caitlyn finds that she had inadvertently begun to chew on her nails.

This letter was definitely an invitation, an arrow pointing to the murderer in a sort of colloquial fashion. But why would the perpetrator want to be discovered? Most likely it was a trap to lure her, the shining symbol of justice, out of the city.

But where? And why would they need four murders to relay this invitation for her? What did they have in common? What was the meaning of the emphasized word 'SINS'? If the murderer wanted to be discovered, why leave such vague clues, with nothing to go on except four measly scraps of paper?

These questions and more revolved around Caitlyn's head faster than the blades would revolve in a turbine engine. After several minutes more, the questions still lay unanswered in her mind.

She lets out an exasperated sigh before making her way to her bedroom. It was time for a break.

Still, as she stripped down out of her purple and gold one-piece dress, placing her hat atop a table above her boots to prepare for a long shower, the gears in Caitlyn's head still turned and turned, working as fast as possible to complete the immense, elaborate jigsaw puzzle.

Absent-mindedly stepping into the shower, Caitlyn's eyes are once again looking forward to that secret location she frequently paid visits during moments of intense inspection. The showerhead above her head sputters to life, happily spilling its water all over her body.

Closing her eyes as her skin adjusts to the sudden warmth, Caitlyn reviews the evidence within her head once more; during difficult cases, usually involving the elusive "C", she found that reviewing evidence while standing under the flow of warm water helped her mind to clearly think, the chance of finding the desired solution to her problems greatly increasing.

Taking a deep breath, she finds herself grinning widely. It had been a while since a case this daunting presented itself in Piltover. To be quite honest, she found herself to be enjoying passing second of the night.

Shaking her head vigorously, she scrunches her brow, shutting her eyes tightly as her mental eye takes control. A few moments of silence pass before her mouth opens, her voice speaking over the sprinkling of the shower as if to an invisible person.

"Alright. Firstly, these four murders happened in the same area; the slums, the less fortunate areas of PIltover that have not been touched by the city-state's technological finger. This in turn points to the relative location of the perpetrator's location."

She pauses as her thoughts recollect.

"'_How does this relatively inconclusive evidence point to the murderer's whereabouts?_', you may ask. Simple. Take into consideration our city's underground sewer and drainage system. Unlike the vast labyrinths lying underneath the despicable city-states of Zaun and Noxus," she makes a malice-filled pronunciation of Piltover's dreaded enemy states, "Piltover's underbelly is monitored daily by state-of-the-art surveillance systems, which leaves this possibility of our murderer's possible dwelling place out of the picture.

"'_What about other parts of the city?_', you may once again inquire. Obviously not, for our forces are incessantly patrolling this city-state to ensure no criminals lay unseen within their respective hideouts. So then. If the perpetrators cannot be dwelling within Piltover, either underground or aboveground, where else might they be? Simple. The industrial marshes just outside our borders.

"This explains why the murders took place near the edge of our city-state; it is an ideal 'hit and run' tactic for quick getaway, and the abandoned factories and industrial structures outside of our city-state pose as an ideal location for the murderers to reside in. Now, all that is needed is to find which specific factory or building the perpetrators are currently using as their 'base of operations', so to speak.

"By now, I am sure you have figured out that these four notes found at each of the crime scenes are letters addressed to the police force and I; invitations. Now the very last word at the end of the notes, 'SINS', is one word that is singular from all the others: all the letters are capitalized. I take that this is an indication that it has a significance to finding the murderers' dwelling place, which I am sure is an abandoned factory outside the city owned by one of the very few bankrupt corporations residing in Piltover."

Caitlyn suddenly stops her monologue, her eyes flying wide open. During the speech to the showerhead, all the words were unprepared, her mind merely piecing everything together as she went along. And now, as she stood, her face lit with a shrill light of realization and revelation, her heart thudding in her chest as adrenaline pumped through her veins in a vicious torrent, she suddenly knew where the murderer was inviting her.

Quickly her hand flies for the shower's water faucet, ceasing the continuous flow sputtering from the shower head. Grabbing a towel she hastily dries herself before wrapping the white cloth around her as she dashes out of the bathroom into her living room, her wet hair clinging to her exposed shoulders.

Arriving at the wall still draped with evidence, her hands go to work, ripping off the papers and rearranging them on the wall with a frightening speed. Her eyes are in slits as her concentration takes control of her body, her arms moving as if possessed by an outside force. Several minutes later, Caitlyn stops, a huge pile of evidence lying at her feet, only the most crucial information still strung up on the wall.

Stepping back, she places her hands at her hips, her eyes digesting the new sight before her:

Nine sheets of paper remained on the wall, each one rearranged to reveal the location of the murderer's supposed hideout. One of the four notes still hung on the wall, its bold words now making sense out of themselves. Above this are pinned lists of associates for each murdered victim, one name recurring on each one; Sinstrax Industries.

Below these lists are pinned the victim's names; Reginald Trosky, Timothy Yesgard, Xavier Demidov, and Abel Burlinger. But the sheets of paper with these words are arranged so that each one is overlapping another, only the first letter peeking out from underneath to spell out yet another word; **T**imothy, **R**eginald, **A**bel, **X**avier, **TRAX.**

This formed word is finally positioned next to one of the notes found on top of one of the politician's dead bodies, the word aligning itself with the final word in the invitation, '**SINS**'.

When read together, the letters read the name of a bankrupt corporation which owns only one factory outside of Piltoverian borders in the industrial marshes; the home of the politicians' murderer.

_**Sinstrax Industries. **_

Caitlyn remains to stand, eyes reading and rereading the results of her work, scrutinizing whether or not it was logical. Finally a grin spreads across her face, her psyche satisfied that she had finally untied the immense knot of clues and mystery.

Suddenly turning on her heel, she picks up a phone on a nearby desk, dialing her subordinate.

"Bough? Yes. Yes I've just discovered where our culprit is residing. Calm down, the case isn't finished. Ring up the boys in blue will you? We need all the men we can get. We're paying them a visit."

* * *

If one were to look out upon the road leading out to the industrial marshes that lay out of city boundaries that night, they would see an unending line of blue squad cars and other police personnel, their red and blue lights casting multicolored flashes of light upon the green muck surrounding the road. Above this long battle-ready snake flew several helicopters, their spotlights centered on the dark and imposing factory of Sinstrax Industries, illuminating the building's long and twisted steel spires.

At the very head of the crusade behind a heavily armored combat-ready vehicle drove Caitlyn, Bough seated beside her with apprehension and anxiety in his eyes. He had never been in a live firefight before, or any combat at all for that matter, and this intimidating situation caused goosebumps to break out all over his body. His shivering hands clutch at the bulletproof vest that protected his chest.

"M-Ma'am? You are _sure_ that these...murderers are in there?" Bough nervously inquires, his eyes following the helicopters flying above as they advance towards the factory to serve as eyes in the sky.

Caitlyn takes her eyes off the road for a second, giving Bough a questioning look. The moment her eyes met his, she instantly recognized the fear residing behind his pupils. A knowing grin crosses her face as she returns her concentration to the road before her.

"Of course I'm sure. And don't worry," she removes a hand off the stick-shift, intertwining it with his, "I'll never leave my volunteer deputy to fend for himself."

Bough feels blush feels his cheeks as his cold, clammy fingers clasp onto his superior's warm touch. But for some reason, the apprehension and fear instantly dissipates, now replaced with a sort of confidence as Caitlyn's promise reverberates through his mind.

Through the car ride, her hand remains locked with his, a reassurance to the rookie from his superior.

Finally they arrive at their destination, the shrill screams of sirens blaring reverberating off the walls of the factory courtyard as the cars file inside neatly to form a close circle. The immense steel columns causing imposing shadows as the helicopters continuously shone on the seemingly uninhabited building made of steel and concrete.

As soon as all of the vehicles had stopped, parked comfortably inside the huge factory courtyard, all of the officers instantly step out of their cars, instantly removing guns from their holsters, and on rare instances, removing their rifles from their respective cases.

Each and every gun is focused on the imposing entrance, the arched doorways made of steel accompanied by a huge flight of steps. All around the squad vehicles tall, daunting walls reach into the night sky, catwalks and various doorways leading to unknown rooms and chambers.

At the very front of this assault Caitlyn stands with her hands on her hips, sniper rifle slung over her shoulder.

Suddenly all sirens are silenced, every man hushed as the Sheriff of Piltover begins to speak.

"I have accepted your invitation," she yells, her eyes roaming the various dark crevices of the factory, as if she is speaking to the factory itself. "So come out, and show yourselves. More than eight-hundred of Piltover's finest are awaiting your next move."

Silence. Only the beat of the overhead helicopters' wings can be heard as every man and woman holds their breath, hearts beating in anticipation.

Then, simultaneously all of the bright light from above is diminished, the loud whir of the helicopters' spinning blades silenced before the earth trembles as the sound of multiple explosions meets everyone's ears.

Faces are illuminated in an orange glow, the fire caused from the explosions blossoming in the night air. Before anyone can react, the remaining lights atop the police vehicles shatter one by one, shot at from an invisible force hidden somewhere within the shadows. Headlights of every vehicle suffer the same fate, every remaining source of light shot at from the darkness. In mere seconds, darkness consumes them all, even the light of the moon withheld from them as a thick cloud enshrouds over the circular disk in the sky.

A booming voice suddenly presents itself, the baritone rumble delivered through a slight nasally filter. But even with this almost comical factor, the voice sends shivers up everyone's spines, simultaneously giving off a sense of authority.

"_**Ah...if it isn't the Sheriff of Piltover herself. Well it is quite an honor to be paid a visit by our city's finest,**_" At these words huge steel gates suddenly creak behind the police force, their only exit blocked by the thick impenetrable metal walls. "_**but I am afraid that you **_**all**_** have already outstayed your welcome**_."

Before any other word can be uttered, shots are fired from the dark, bewildered officers dropping dead as death rains from above.

Caitlyn stands petrified for a mere moment as she sees her men drop lifeless to the ground one by one, each of their bodies lodged with a bullet shot by a concealed gunman. But as soon as this moment passes, she deftly rotates her body to unsling the rifle draped over her shoulder, lenses from her hat immediately swinging in front of her eye to act as a scope to aid her shooting.

"_RETURN FIRE!_", the Sheriff yells at the top of her lungs as she swivels around to fire a precisely aimed shot into the darkness, striking a sniper right between the eyes.

Soon the entire factory courtyard is a firestorm of gunshots, the remaining officers taking cover behind their vehicles as their pistols and rifles shooting blindly into the darkness at invisible assailants, forced to engage in combat.

Caitlyn however dashes into the middle of the firefight, her body spinning and twirling as a dancer on stage as she shoots round after round from her sniper rifle, dispatching hidden gunmen with frightening accuracy.

All the men and women around her watch in amazement as she continues to shoot shot after shot, each and every bullet hitting a man in the darkness, her body swirling with finesse and grace.

Suddenly her ears are met with a shrill cry, the voice striking a chord of recognition within her brain; Bough.

Caitlyn stops mid-stride, her eyes widening in fear, her head swiveling around to locate her beloved subordinate. This moment's hindrance is one moment too long, for before she can even take a step towards Bough's voice, her world turns black as a tranquilizer dart lodges itself to the side of her neck.

* * *

Caitlyn's eyes groggily open in the darkness, her eyelids feeling as if they are made of lead. Her head is lolled to the side in the damp darkness of her current location, the coldness stinging her exposed skin. She feels her arms painfully strapped behind her, her wrists bound with a rough material; most likely rope. Caitlyn realizes she is sitting on a metal chair, her eyes recognizing the floor beneath her to be concrete. Before any time is allowed for her to fully recollect herself, from within the darkness that imposing voice reaches out to her, resulting in an involuntary shiver to rack her body.

"_**Look who finally came to."**_

Caitlyn asks the first thing to come to her head, all other questions regarding her whereabouts or the fate of her men still processing in the back of her mind.

"Who are you?"

A frightening chuckle resounds through the dark chamber, amplifying its tone, echoing repeatedly. Finally, the voice speaks again, sending a spark of fear through Caitlyn's psyche.

"_**I...am Piltover's reckoning." **_


End file.
